


Ataraxia

by Evayna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evayna/pseuds/Evayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the December Johnlock Gift Exchange based on gakukai’s fluff prompt “Cuddling”</p>
<p>Didn’t want to tread the hallowed but well-trodden ground of cuddling because of cold, confined spaces, or nightmares, so I got creative. Very dialogue heavy. Hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ataraxia

Sipping earl grey and watching raindrops struggling down a window pane was calming. It had a sort of timelessness to it. Something one did as a child, and when old and tired. He could imagine himself at different points in his life, being quiet like this, turning his spoon with just his fingers, not touching the edges of the cup for fear of metal clinking on ceramic and disturbing the moment. It appeared Sherlock, however, could not.  
“This is pointless, John!”  
“Quiet, Sherlock, you’re spoiling it.”  
His flatmate rolled his eyes, and sipped tea contemptuously.  
“This may work for simpler minds, but for those that can think on two things at once…”  
“Oh? I thought it was a sign of a refined mind to be able to focus, even when confronted with bodily distractions?”  
“I said that about hunger, John. This is hardly the same.”  
“An itch?”  
“It’s more than an itch!” Sherlock shook is right leg about, wrapped firmly in the cast he’d been trapped in for the last week. “It may look like an ordinary bandage, but I assure you, it’s… it’s constructed of white phosphorous, goose down, and thumb tacks!”  
“That bad, huh?”  
Sherlock released a breath through his teeth. “It is extremely irritating.”  
“More irritating than Mycroft?”  
“Well, let’s not be too rash.”  
John smiled at that and took his tea over to the couch, turning on the telly.  
“Poor choice of words,” Sherlock added, hobbling over to join him.  
“Do you want to try the hair dryer again?” John asked. He was flipping through channels mindlessly. The earl grey had worked for him.  
“God no. It just teases at relief. Challenging as it may be,” he nestled more comfortably on the sofa, “distraction is still the best option.”  
John hummed at that, and settled on an old rerun of Prime Suspect. He was just getting into it when he noticed something wrong about the mess on the coffee table. Newspapers, leftovers, dog-eared books, a lump of something floating in a jar… Nothing out of the ordinary. What was missing?  
“Sherlock, why do I only have one chopstick?”  
The man didn’t respond, but instead swiveled away from John, placing his cast-laden foot on the sofa’s arm, propped up awkwardly with the union jack pillow.  
“Sherlock.” He muted the television and set down the remote.  
“I haven’t the slightest… ahhh, that’s better.”  
“Sherlock! You git!”  
John pulled one of Sherlock’s arms back but the scoundrel just switched the offending chopstick over to the other and resumed scratching under his cast.  
“Do you want to get an infection?” John twisted to get a better angle. “Or are you just desperate to visit the hospital again so they can cut the bloody thing out when it gets stuck?”  
“Worth…” Sherlock squirmed, “it…”  
“Stop scratching!” He finally manoeuvred his body enough to pull both Sherlock’s arms back over his head, and pushed that pesky leg down with his foot for good measure.  
“Let me go, John.”  
“No.”  
John punctuated the answer by stretching Sherlock and gripping tightly. He may be a bit crushed beneath his flatmate’s lanky body, but he was still in control.  
“This is childish.”  
“You’re childish!”  
“Brilliant counter, John. Now let me go.”  
“Not if you’re going to scratch at it like that.”  
“But it _itches_!”  
“Then I’m not letting you go.”  
“Hmph.”  
John could hear Sherlock pouting, though all he could see was a stubborn head of hair atop his hostage body. There was a loud sigh, and then resistance folded away into spiteful submission. John did not let his guard down for a millisecond.  
“You’re serious.”  
“Serious as an infection, Sherlock. Might as well settle in.”  
There was silence again before another sigh.  
“What about your arms? Isn’t your shoulder going to get sore?”  
John huffed. “Been through worse. Compared to some of the wrestling I’ve had to do with criminals while you’re gallivanting about, this is practically-“  
“Practically what?”  
“Well… cuddling.”  
Sherlock scoffed at that.  
More silence passed, this time broken by John. “Is that you?”  
“If I had to hazard a guess I’d say yes, but specifics would be-“  
“That smell. It’s…”  
“Ah,” Sherlock understood. “Lavender.”  
“Lavender!?”  
“The scent serves to relieve agitation and anxiety. At least according to some studies that were definitely less than extensive…”  
“You _have_ been getting desperate.”  
“Why? You don’t like it?”  
“I-” John wasn’t sure how to answer. “No, it’s- it’s fine. It’s just not very… you.”  
“Do you have a scent profile for me?”  
“What? No, I just-“  
“Because I’m surprised you can smell anything over that clove shampoo you wallow in.”  
“I do not _wallow_. And what’s wrong with cloves?”  
“Nothing I suppose. Fresh and earthy, suits you well enough.”  
“Thank… you?”  
“Kind of like mint that’s been covered in dirt.”  
“Hey!”  
John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s arms, who just laughed.  
“Is your smell a sore spot for you, John?”  
“I don’t think it’s something I’ve ever even talked about.”  
“So what do you talk about then?”  
John scoffed. “Oh now you’re interested?”  
“Don’t have much choice, do I?”  
Sherlock’s voice had dropped from light repartee to a grumble and John could actually feel the shift in vibration along his torso. It was a strange sort of feeling, being close like this.  
“People, I suppose. Family. Friends.”  
“Dull. One is endlessly unpleasant and the other is currently holding me captive on the sofa.”  
“You could ask me about mine.”  
Sherlock groaned. “Must I?”  
John laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that.”  
“Doubtful. Unless one of them died in a mysterious accident.”  
Sherlock arched his head back then, so he could look up into John’s face.  
“I don’t suppose one of them died in a mysterious accident?”  
“No, Sherlock,” John smirked back at him. Then his brow fell. “Wait. Okay, maybe one of them did.”  
“Really?” Sherlock became very keen; eyes bright and body insinuated against John like a cat.  
“No one close,” John added. “In case you were considering showing any common sympathy.”  
“It’s not like I’m responsible.”  
“Who can be sure…” John raised an eyebrow.  
“Well, tell me about this friend and maybe you’ll jog my memory.”  
“Alright then. Let’s see, he was a major equipment vendor at the clinic. I’d chatted with him a few times; he’d drink some absurd… I think it was a matcha latte? and talk about the economy.”  
“Sounds tedious.”  
“He was pretty smart actually. And he knew a lot about London. Though he seemed a little sexist; the way he talked about his new wife-“  
“Get to the grisly death.”  
“It wasn’t grisly, Sherlock. He just took one to the head in a car crash.”  
“Mm, but you considered it a mysterious death. I can assume you know the statistics on automobile accidents, so: what was off?”  
“He had… driven into a cow. They said he was drunk.”  
“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, and John could feel that too. Suddenly Sherlock’s arms pulled forward.  
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
“I’m trying to think, John.”  
“You don’t need hands to think.”  
Sherlock huffed before looking plaintively up at him.  
“That ‘steeple your fingers to look all dramatic’ thing? That actually helps?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning his head away, pouting.  
“Alright then,” John said, and let their arms rest over Sherlock’s ribs. “But if you go for your leg, don’t think I won’t break something else.”  
His captive ignored the threat, but brought his hands in front of his face, tapping his fingertips against each other in waves. After a moment the tapping stopped and he went a bit tense.  
“Was there anyone else in the car?”  
“His wife, I think. Bit of whiplash, but she was okay.”  
“In that case, it is very likely she orchestrated the whole thing.”  
“What!? He died in a crash, Sherlock”  
“Exactly. This is a man who drinks green tea and is obsessed with metropolitan life. Why would he get drunk and go for a drive in the country? No, it makes much more sense that this is a man who looks out for himself and no one else. Wife had enough and wanted insurance money. Flashy car, wasn’t it?”  
“A porsche.”  
“Mm, not fit for back road driving, but perfectly suited for insurance fraud. All his other resources were tied up in investments, this was a way for her to get both money and revenge.”  
“So she killed him!?”  
“May not have been the original plan. But knocking out a full grown man, safely crashing a car, and getting alcohol into him couldn’t have been foolproof.”  
“That all seems a bit unbelievable.”  
“Says the man cuddling with his flatmate to prevent losing a chopstick to his cast.”  
“At least I’m not hurting any cows.”  
He got a chuckle for that, and they both relaxed.  
“Well, this wasn’t as terrible as I might have thought,” Sherlock finally said, quiet and content.  
“Listening to me?”  
“That too.”  
John exhaled softly, ruffling Sherlock’s fringe. They lay a little longer before he spoke.  
“I’m sorry about your leg. Not the cast, well yes the cast, but I mean it getting broken at all. I should have been there.”  
“You were there, John.” He turned his head to the side. “They would’ve broken the other one. Maybe an arm.”  
“I should’ve-“  
“No, you-” He grimaced. “It was… I was in over my head.”  
“Sorry, what was that?”  
“Don’t add insult to quite literal injury, John. I’m trying to say… You still saved me. More times than anyone else would.”  
“Sherlock,” John started, though not quite sure what he wanted to say. After a breath, he settled on “Always.”  
They lay there for a long time. The show ended, mutely running credits. The rain let up, though the sun was setting before the clouds would let any light through. Traffic churned, birds called. The tea went terribly cold.  
“Sherlock,” John whispered. “The tea-“  
But his flatmate’s breathing was steady, the first real rest since the hospital, so he finished his sentence as a warm breath on the top of his head, a subtle press of lips. The lavender filled his senses and he let himself start to drift off. He knew eventually he’d have to move to get his circulation back, but right now there was a sort of timelessness to it.


End file.
